


Familiar

by Jaspergirl (old_fashioned_gal)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e22 Becoming Part 2, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24592681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/old_fashioned_gal/pseuds/Jaspergirl
Summary: Ethan takes care of Giles in aftermath of Becoming.
Relationships: Rupert Giles/Ethan Rayne
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43





	Familiar

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of this and am making no profit.

If the years had taught Rupert Giles one thing, it was that there was really very little limit as to what a person could be put through and they’d still be – eventually – more or less alright. He’d seen it time and again over the course of his career. Watchers who lost their potentials, or their families, or sometimes even their limbs and by and large they coped. Some drank, some developed nervous twitches, but they pulled through. They functioned. Stiff upper lip and all that. And no matter what Californians had to say about the dangers of bottling things up, it worked. Mostly.

Just look at him. He’d seen things on the night that Eyghon took Randall which, had he been told about them in advance, he would have assumed would break him – or anyone. Yet he’d coped, returned to the fold, tried, over the course of a lifetime, to atone. The memory of Randall shuddering and screaming as he was swallowed up had become just one of a series of unpleasant things he’d seen over the course of a lifetime’s encounters with demons. He’d learnt not to dwell on the fact it had been his fault because if he did, he’d never be of any use to anyone. He’d focused his energies on his watcher training and getting through withdrawal and re-establishing his relationships with everyone he had shunned and disgraced during his absence and not necessarily in that order. It had been tough, but he’d coped.

And when his father had died just a year after he’d returned – far, far too soon – he’d still coped. Carried on. It was what he did.

Nowadays, in Sunnydale, the children always turned to him with a disarming certainty, trusting him to deal with the latest crisis. Believing apparently wholeheartedly that he could deal with it, whatever it was. He was capable. The grown up. He didn’t give in to despair. A trait forged by years of discipline, and then Eyghon, and then still more years of self-disciple, it was by now what he most prided in himself. He coped, whatever the universe threw at him.

This though. Giles wasn’t sure he could cope with this.

It had been at least thirty hours since he’d last been home. In that time, he’d been tortured by Angelus, rescued, treated in hospital for as long as he’d been able to tolerate not knowing (not long) and then gone back to the mansion to find out what was happening.

In the doorway, a sudden wave of terror had paralysed him, but he’d been stern with himself, reminded himself that if Acathla had woken, he was dead either way so he may as well go a little closer. It had given him enough courage to enter despite being actually more scared of Angelus, deep down.

The place had been deserted. No Buffy. No Angelus. Acathla dormant, vampires either dusted or fled. Relief had been more than tempered with concern. Where was Buffy? Had she been –

He couldn’t even think it. She couldn’t have been swallowed up by Acathla, couldn’t have died pulling the abomination Angelus into the porthole. He wouldn’t consider the possibility.

Calls to her home going unanswered, Giles had gone to work under the pretence of wanting to see the children (he did but he was exhausted, beyond exhausted, wanted nothing but sleep as soon as he knew where his slayer was), in order to access to the library’s magical texts. He’d collected up all the spells he could find that could confirm Buffy’s continued presence in the human realm, a task that rendered pointless when Joyce Summers had walked into the library to demand “an explanation”. He’d put his surging relief – Buffy was alive, she’d left a note to prove it – aside and proceeded to rob her mother of her lifelong certainty that the world was largely a benign, mundane place where a human being was the worst thing one could meet.

After that, he’d had to wait until the remaining children were assembled in the library for their lunchbreak to tell them that Buffy had run away. If he’d been allowed to choose between that and another round with Angelus…well, he’d choose the relaying of bad news in the safety of the day-lit library, but he might have to think about it for a moment. The expression on Willow’s face had been heart-wrenching. They were all still children.

Once Joyce’s intervention had removed the need for research, he’d found himself thinking of Angelus whenever he was alone. Which was ridiculous. Angelus was gone. So why couldn’t he pull himself together?

Now, finally, he was home. Ready to sleep, but knowing he both shouldn’t and wouldn’t be able to. He put the key in the door. And it swung open, -already unlocked. Giles felt his mouth go dry.

It couldn’t be Angelus. He was gone. It couldn’t be Drusilla. She wasn’t invited and she was quite possibly dust in any case. So what was there to be afraid of?

It could be Buffy! At that thought, Giles hurried inside to find –

“Hello, Ripper.”

Giles sagged against the wall. Wonderful. Here it was: proof that the universe hated him and wanted him to suffer. Because of everyone it could have been, coming up a close third for title of least desired was – “Ethan Rayne. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Oh, yes, Ripper, it’s lovely to see you too. I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

“How did you get in?”

Ethan smirked, settling himself deeper into Giles’ sofa. “I worship the God of doorways, Rupert. How do you think?”

Giles straightened and stepped sideways, indicating the still-open door. “Get out.”

“What, you’re not even going to beat me up? I’m hurt, Ripper, I thought you’d at least…Rupert? What’s wrong?”

Giles found he’d sagged against the wall again, this time without meaning to. He made an effort to hold himself up properly but found that the adrenaline that had carried him through since last night had abruptly left him. “I’m serious, Ethan, now is _not_ a good time.”

“Yes, I’m getting that. Here.” Ethan was suddenly beside him, helping him tilt into his side. Giles resisted and ended up slumped on the floor.

“For Janus’ sake, Ripper! Bloody co-operate!”

“I asked you to leave my home!”

“So you can pass out on the floor on your own? I think not.” Ethan tugged at Giles’ hand, trying to coax him to put his arm over his shoulder. He stopped when he saw the bandaged fingers. “Fuck. Ripper, don’t tell me you went to _work_ like this!”

“I had things to do.” Giles finally managed to push himself up and stagger over to the sofa.

Ethan tailed him. “They should have sent you home! Don’t they have employee rights in this country?”

“I wanted to be there. And what would you know about honest employment?”

Ethan smirked. “No more than you. Or does the school know why you’re really on their payroll?”

Giles ignored him. He sat down, managing not to flinch. If he showed any pain, it would give Ethan an excuse to stay. Ethan walked off and for a bewildering moment Giles thought he was leaving (which should have made him relieved, but didn’t, but that was only the concussion talking). Then he heard the kettle click on. He didn’t really want to know but he had to ask, “What are you doing back in Sunnydale?”

From the kitchen, Ethan asked, “Where do you keep your tea bags? Oh, never mind, found ‘em.”

“Ethan.”

“I’m here for honest employment actually. But we don’t need to go into that.”

“I’m fairly certain we do.”

“Not until you’ve had some tea at least.”

Giles found he didn’t have the wherewithal to argue. He sat back, listening to the homely sounds of someone else making him tea for a change. It was a familiar sound, but familiar from a long time ago. It made Giles think of home. Home long ago: his mother pottering about in the kitchen as he woke up every morning, opening cupboards, filling the kettle. Such an unhelpful thing to be thinking about at this moment.

Ethan returned with a teapot, a carton of milk and two mugs on a tray. “Here we go. I’ll leave it to brew, shall I?”

Giles shrugged, then winced. Ethan studied him for a moment before asking, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“No”

“You have been seen by a doctor though?”

“What do you care?”

“Rupert, stop being an arse. Have you been seen by a doctor?”

“Yes, and I have the mind-distorting painkillers to prove it.” Giles had already decided he wasn’t going to take any more of them. They were strong enough to confuse him and he’d had quite enough of not being able to trust his senses. All he had in his bloodstream was the dose he’d been talked into at the hospital, and that had more or less worn off completely now: no hope then that Ethan was simply a hallucination.

After a few moments, and with an appearance of reluctance, Ethan moved his gaze from Giles to the teapot. “Well then, have some tea. Here.” He poured a mug, added milk and pushed it towards Giles. Giles sipped at it absently, soothed despite himself. He tried not to read anything in to the fact that Ethan still remembered how he liked his tea. Probably just luck.

Ethan, meanwhile, helped himself to the other mug. Giles thought about telling him to leave once it was finished, but remembered that he still didn’t know what the man was doing in town. Fortunate for Ethan that he felt so wretched, or he’d thrash the chaos mage for bringing more trouble to this already awful situation. As if he needed more worries on top of finding Buffy. “Who are you working for this time?”

Ethan shrugged. “No-one. I turned the job down.”

“Not enough blood money?”

“Not enough common sense. Something about tracing the Glove of Myneghon.”

“The Glove of…Gods! Ethan, who’s looking for it?”

“Please, Rupert, how do you expect me to keep myself in a comfortable lifestyle if I divulge the names of my clients to a watcher?”

“But you turned the job down?”

“Well yes. I’m a devotee of Chaos not of mindless destruction.”

“Funny how the two are so often indistinguishable.” Giles tried to sound scathing but he was caught up in spiralling thoughts. He’d have to research the fabled glove tomorrow, in between looking for Buffy. Perhaps have Xander ask in Willy’s Place. It shouldn’t be too hard to find out who was after it. Just hard to stop them without a slayer. Maybe he should leave off mentioning the threat to the others until she returned? It wouldn’t do to put them in danger, or to worry them if they couldn’t help. And surely Buffy would return soon? She was young, and in shock. She’d probably get halfway to wherever she thought she was going and decide to turn back.

Except that as well as being young and traumatised she was also the most determined person Giles had ever met bar himself. If she’d truly decided to disappear she’d take some finding.

Ethan drained his tea. He had always drunk fast; on nights out he’d always been tipsy before anyone else. Giles suspected it was a nervous habit: he drank for the sake of something to do with his hands. Setting the mug down on the table, Ethan asked, “So how much of a state are you in? Did you get knocked out?”

“Oh yes, my track record remains intact.”

“It’s a good job you had so many brain cells to begin with.”

“I believe I asked you to leave.”

“No you didn’t. That’s just the concussion talking.”

“I mean it, Ethan.”

“So do I. Look, is it really a good idea for you to be alone right now?”

No, was the answer, but that didn’t mean Ethan’s company was healthy either. Ethan persisted with, “Have you eaten since whatever it was happened?”

Giles honestly had no idea. He traced back through the day, starting at the hospital, finishing in the library. He’d had a tub of jelly in the former and half a donut in the latter. “Yes.”

“Including dinner?”

“I ate before I left work.” It wasn’t strictly a lie.

“So you don’t need anything else?”

“No.” Giles wasn’t remotely hungry. His stomach twinged emptily but thinking about food was starting to make him queasy. Beside him, Ethan said, “I could order take away if you like.”

“No.” Giles realised he was snapping. “Thank you.” But then, why did it matter if he snapped? This was Ethan. One did not need to be polite to chaos worshipers. Good Lord, he was all over the place. He leant forward on impulse and cupped his head in his hands. Immediately, Ethan shifted closer and snaked an arm around his shoulders. “Rupert? Come on, look at me.”  
Giles glanced up at him and then away again. “What do you want?”

“To help.”

“Why?”

“Um. Old times’ sake?”

Giles shook his head and then immediately regretted the action. The painkillers and the adrenaline had vanished completely now. Ethan’s grip on his shoulder tightened briefly. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs.”

“You’re staying, aren’t you?” Giles heard resignation in his own voice.

“Upstairs, now.” Ethan stood, pulling Giles up with him.

“No, I…” Giles found himself struggling. “I sleep on the sofa these days.”

“Why?”

“I just…Just let go of me, Ethan!” Giles found himself deposited back on the sofa, head in hands again. Unwelcomely, Ethan crouched in front of him, resting his hands against Giles’ knees. “Rupert, I know you’re into self-denial but tonight you’re just going to have to forgo that quaint little habit and sleep in an actual bed. You’re injured.”

“It has nothing to do with self-denial.”

“What then?” Ethan frowned. “Are you ill? Do you need to be near the bathroom?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

Nothing would induce Giles to tell Ethan about Jenny. Jenny dead, her neck elongated and twisted against his pillow upstairs.

Jenny, eyes lit with loving concern, crouching in front of him in the mansion.

Much like Ethan now. Giles hastily straightened up. “Fine” He was far too tired now to argue and at least upstairs he wouldn’t have Ethan kneeling beside him like that. Suddenly he didn’t want anyone that close to his face.

Now Ethan was standing again. “Good. Here, I’ll help.”

“I don’t need help.”

Ethan didn’t know it but he helped simply by being someone for Giles to prove he could climb the stairs by himself to. Otherwise, he might have thought about the night of Jenny’s death all the way up. He’d rarely been up here since and only ever in daylight. As it was, he reached the top of the stairs thinking only of Ethan and how to stop him following. When he stopped suddenly at the top, Ethan almost bumped into him. “Sorry, old man.”

“Why are you up here, Ethan? I’m perfectly capable of putting myself to bed.”

“Are you?” Ethan raised an eyebrow, staring down at Giles’ mangled hand. Giles studied it for a moment. How had he gotten dressed when he left the hospital? Someone must have helped but he wasn’t sure who. The start of the day was a bit of a blur; the drugs had been fresh in his system. “I’ll manage.”

“Really, Rupert, I don’t know why you’re being so difficult.” Ethan moved around him and away from the stairs, steering Giles deeper into the room. “It’s not as though I haven’t seen you naked before.”

Giles allowed himself to be manoeuvred deeper into the room because he doubted he’d be able to force himself to move forward otherwise. But as soon they were by the bed, he shook off Ethan’s touch. “That doesn’t mean you’ll be getting a strip tease tonight. If you must stay, you know where the sofa is.”

Ethan simply rolled his eyes and headed over to the chest of drawers by the side of the bed. “Where do you keep your pyjamas?” He opened a drawer at random. “And don’t tell me you haven’t got any. Knowing you, you’ll have a classic blue stripy pair. To think you used to sleep in that scruffy old t-shirt…”

“I told you, you’re not helping me.”

“I’ll turn my back if you insist on being stubborn, but you’ll need someone to help with your buttons.”

“I can manage buttons one handed.”

“Yes, because your other hand looks fine” replied Ethan sarcastically.

Giles looked down at his right hand and found it was shaking. That would be the drugs, he supposed. Or at least hoped, since the drugs would wear off. Nothing broken, but bruises and the swelling edges of a cut had left the whole appendage awkward and clumsy even without the shaking. Fine for lifting and opening books, good enough – with a few second attempts – at turning pages, but unzipping to relieve himself earlier had taken longer than it should and now his fingers and wrist were cramping, protesting at doing the work of two hands by itself. Giles sighed heavily. “You’ll turn your back unless I need you?”

Ethan nodded demurely and handed over a pair of blue, stripy pyjamas with a meaningful smirk before swivelling to study the wall. Giles took a breath and slipped off his jacket. The heavy tweed hit the floor with a reassuring thud. Giles suddenly wanted to fill this attic space with mundane sounds, to be as noisy as possible to drive away the ghosts. He wondered if Ethan would think him completely mad if he went to sleep with the radio on.

Tugging at the button on his trousers, he tried to step out of those too, then realised his shoes were still on. “Bugger!”

“Can’t I romance you a little first?”

“Sod off, Ethan!” Giles reddened as Ethan turned around to find him with his trousers around his ankles and his shoes and shirt still on. Ethan’s lip twitched before he forced his expression into neutral. “Sit down, Ripper, for Gods’ sake.”

Having no other option, Giles sat down on the bed. Ethan knelt at his feet but Giles found that was alright: Ethan wasn’t close to his face, was simply untying his shoe laces. “Someone must have done these up for you” Ethan commented. “Who?”

“I don’t know.” Xander maybe? But his arm was hurt – they were all so hurt, the poor children. Perhaps Oz. Or a nurse. Frustrating stuff, morphine. He wished he could remember being rescued more clearly.

Ethan was frowning up at him. “Are you sure you should be going to sleep with a head injury?” He slipped Giles’ shoes off and pressed them together, lined them up carefully against the end of the bed.

“I really am alright, Ethan. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“That’s what you said that time you got smashed over the head with that sodding beer bottle in that dive of a nightclub in Brixton. I’m well aware of your definition of not-as-bad-as-it-looks, Ripper.” He pulled Giles’ socks off and tossed them onto a pile with his jacket. Then he slipped Giles’ bunched up trousers off the ends of his ankles, added them to the pile. Giles shook himself. “I’ll do the rest.”

“You might as well let me finish.”

It was true; Ethan had seen it all before and it seemed silly to insist he stand and face the wall again, but as soon as Ethan stood and bent over him, hands on the buttons of his shirt, Giles found himself flinching away. “Really, Ethan, I can manage.”

For a second, something dangerous marred Ethan’s face but he kept his voice carefully even. “Who did this, Rupert?”

“It…it doesn’t matter. Could you just…” Giles nodded to the wall. Sighing, Ethan turned his back again. Giles knew the mage’s mind had to be turning over possibilities, trying to work out what had gone on here. Well, let him wonder. Giles hadn’t asked him to show up.

He managed the buttons slowly and with much suppressed swearing, hooking his good fingers around each of them and pushing at them with his thumb, occasionally using his left thumb to hold the fabric flat. Considerate of Angelus to leave him with both his thumbs.

Giles was really very satisfied at Angelus’ death. He had never personally loathed a vampire before this. They had always just been vampires.

Finishing the buttons down his front, he tried to shift the shirt from his shoulders before remembering the buttons at his wrist. “Bugger”

“You do keep asking” muttered Ethan, “but I fear I would be taking advantage.”

“Shut up Ethan, and help me with these.”

“Well since you ask so nicely…” Ethan came over to the bed and unbuttoned the shirt at the wrists. Then, before Giles could stop him, he slid the garment over his arms, leaning closer as he did so. Giles drew in a quick breath and held it until Ethan stepped back, tossing the shirt on the pile of discarded clothes. Next, he stepped around Giles to fetch the pyjamas on the bed behind him. Giles heard Ethan’s breath hiss inwards as he spotted the dressings on his back.

When the mage faced Giles again his expression was grim. “Not as bad as it looks?”

“It’s none of your concern, Ethan.”

“I’ll decide that for myself, thanks. How are your ribs?”

“Mostly intact.”

“So are you going to sleep on your bandaged back or on your side with broken ribs? Or am I going to drive you back to hospital?”

“I don’t need to go back there.” Giles slid his glasses from his face and leaned awkwardly sideways to set them on the bedside table. “I’m fine.”

“Right, and I’m the pope.”

“Goodnight Ethan” Giles told him pointedly.

Ethan shook his head. “You’re forgetting something, Ripper.”

“What?” Giles really wasn’t in the mood for games.

“Pants. Off with ‘em.”

Giles looked down at his underwear. “Oh, sod off!”

“I’m serious – you’ll be uncomfortable enough without sleeping in day-old underwear.”

“Fine then. Go downstairs and then I’ll take them off.”

“No, you’re going to need me to do up your pyjama buttons.” Catching Giles’ expression, Ethan added, “I’ll turn my back!” He did so.

Muttering darkly, Giles stood and pushed his pants off with his thumbs. Then he picked up the pyjama trousers and attempted to shake them open, sitting back on the bed to hook them over his feet. Pulling them up completely took some doing, during which time Ethan dutifully faced the wall and said nothing. Finally, Giles started to slip his mangled hand into the sleeve of the pyjama top. It didn’t go well. Fitting the fabric against his body required a dexterity he didn’t have right now. “Err. Ethan, could you, um…”

“Right you are” Ethan came over to the bed and helped Giles pull the top on. He stood a little to the side this time, apparently having realised that Giles wasn’t comfortable with anyone moving in too close. He was surprisingly gentle as he pulled the sleeves over Giles’ arms, but Giles refused to be affected by that. Drusilla had been surprisingly gentle too.

At the shudder that ran through Giles, Ethan paused. “Alright, old man?”

“Never better.” He’d said that to Angelus hadn’t he? Giles was a little proud of that, though he wasn’t sure he had any right to be. The world had been saved, but no thanks to him. He’d allowed himself to be tricked into giving away a secret that could have damned every last man, woman and child in the human race. His father would have been ashamed of him.

Well, no more than he had been ever since the disaster that was Eyghon, and there had been no time to fix it, no time to mend their relationship before the older man passed...

Why was he thinking about this?

Ethan bent closer from further away than was easy, reaching over to do up Giles’ buttons. “There. Do you need anything else? A drink perhaps?”

“No thank you” Actually, Giles was thirsty but he didn’t want to encourage Ethan’s strange and slightly suspect desire to help.

“Alright then. I’ll be downstairs. Unless you’d prefer –”

“No.”

“Right. Well, goodnight, Ripper.”

As Ethan retreated in the direction of the staircase, Giles suddenly decided sod it, if he could trust Ethan to spend the night in his home with no malice, he could trust him to fetch a drink. “Actually, Ethan, I wouldn’t say no to a glass of water.”

“Coming right up.”

As he waited, Giles got under the covers and shifted about, trying to find a position that didn’t make part of him ache. That apparently not possible, he tried for the position with least pain. Then he lay still, too tired to care.

Ethan reappeared with water. “There we go. I’ll leave it here shall I?” He set it down on the bedside table.

“Thank you” Giles managed. “And perhaps you could switch the lamp on too? Otherwise I’ll spill it with my fingers in splints.”

Ethan switched the lamp on. “I’ll turn in as well. Don’t want to disturb you with the TV”

“I don’t mind.” Truthfully, Giles would welcome the distraction of hearing the TV from downstairs but he couldn’t say that to Ethan. That would be truly pathetic.

“No, no. I’ll let you sleep” replied Ethan.

Damn the man. Of all the times to become considerate. Ethan made his way downstairs, turning off the main light in the loft as he went. “Sleep well, Ripper. I’ll be on the couch if you need anything.”

“Yes. Um, the bedding’s underneath the armchair – help yourself”

“Will do.”

Giles listened to Ethan root around in the living room making up the sofa to his liking. Then Ethan apparently turned off all the lights except the desk lamp. The green glow of it blended surreally with the yellow lamplight from Giles’ bedside table.

Giles watched the shadows. A dressing gown hanging on a hook by the wardrobe looked a little like a robed figure. The shadow cast by an arrangement of ornaments on a nearby shelf looked like a hand reaching out. Good Lord, he was being childish.

It was entirely possible that Jenny had died in this bed. Angelus had grabbed her at the school, that much was clear. The police had found signs of a struggle there, her computer smashed and set alight. But the time of death was vague enough that the vampire might have brought her back here to torment her before that final, cruel twist of her neck. No other marks on her (thank God) but it was still possible. He had learnt last night that not all forms of torture leave marks.

He thought of her in the mansion again, knelt in front of him. _Just tell me what to do._ That loving reassurance metamorphosing horribly into Drusilla’s crowing triumph. Christ, was that what he’d think about now every time he remembered Jenny? Couldn’t they have at least let him keep his memories?

He tried to focus on any noise downstairs, but, apart from the occasional creak of the sofa, all was quiet. But it was an Ethan sort of quiet and knowing that Ethan was in the flat was surprisingly comforting. Ethan was a little piece of home, someone who knew him deeply, knew the best and the worst of him. Well, particularly the worst. But even those memories were at least familiar, almost a relief beside the looming presence of the night in the mansion.

Though best not to dwell on memories, old or recent. He had enough to worry about in the present.

Where was Buffy?

He didn’t fear for her as much as he possibly should, or at least, he wasn’t concerned about the things that would concern him if Willow or Xander had run away. Buffy was a slayer; it was the monsters down dark allies who needed to be scared of her.

As for the threat she could pose to anyone else, she wasn’t the type to misuse her power. Already more mature than he had been when he was young – though not as young as her. Brilliant girl.

And she wasn’t suicidal. He knew her well enough to know that. No, what concerned him was this apparent complete disillusionment with her destiny. The way she had to be feeling to abandon everything. He wished very much he could hug her. She needed a hug tonight. She needed not to be alone.

According to the rules he ought to tell the Council. He wouldn’t. There would be no retrieval team or heavy-handed, humanity-blind intervention. He wouldn’t do that to Buffy.

That decided, he attempted to clear his mind of all thoughts. Slept.

*****

Sleep was dark and heavy and sucked him under like quicksand. Drusilla flitted about him, wiping his brow and flickering between forms like a thaumatrope. First she was herself, but now she was Jenny, and now Xander come to rescue him, and now Buffy returned and ready to avenge him, and now Ethan, bending over him with a look of concern.

Giles yelped, falling sideways out the bed in an effort to scramble away. Ethan winched. “Bloody hell, Ripper, it’s me! Calm down!”

Giles found himself on the floor by his bed with Ethan crouched beside him. Except how could he know it was Ethan? How could he be sure he’d ever left the mansion? This could be another of Drusilla’s tricks, or possibly the vivid effects of oxygen deprivation right before he died. How would he know? “Ethan?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“But it’s not you. How can it be?”

“Well, longer ago than I’d like to specify, the tyrant Mr Rayne Senior took the spineless but pretty one-day-to-be-Mrs Rayne out to dinner and – do you want me to go on?”

“You’re not here” Giles felt not panic but an awful, calm despair. “You’re just an illusion. All of this is just an illusion.”

“Well it’s hard to argue with solipsism, love. But I really am here.”

“Prove it.”

“Um. Shall I pinch you or something?”

“No. Tell me something only the two of us know.” Except Drusilla read minds, didn’t she? “No, wait. Tell me something only you know but that I’d find believable.” It was, of course, entirely possible that Drusilla could fabricate such information, but it was also possible she couldn’t. Giles hoped he’d be able to tell.

“Alright” said Ethan, or the illusion that looked like Ethan “Err…back when we lived together and we played cards, I always cheated.”

“I knew that.”

“I know you knew, that’s not the thing. The thing is on your twenty-third birthday I cheated to make sure you’d win. You’d gone through to the kitchen to get a beer, all _you’d better not cheat, it’s my birthday_ and I swapped the cards around so you had plenty of good ones.”

Giles remained unconvinced but just listening kept him steady. Picturing their filthy London flat was oddly soothing. “Go on.”

“That time you threw the pack at me? Well the next day I was high as the proverbial kite and I couldn’t stop laughing at Phil’s new haircut. He was getting pissed off about it so I turned away to calm myself down and I saw the King of Hearts grinning up at me from where we hadn’t found him when you threw the cards. And that seemed so stupidly funny that I lost it completely. Phil thought I was still laughing at him so he gave me a black eye.”

Giles remembered the black eye and Phillip’s appalling hairdo. “What else?”

“Err. Before we shared a bedroom, I used to sneak into your room when you were out and read your books on magic.”

“You could have just asked.”

“Well you were still a tad prudish about magic back in those early days. I didn’t want you knowing how much I was getting up to.”

“You never thought about anything else.”

“Not true. Occasionally I’d spare the time to think about you. In glorious technicolour and full surround-sound.”

This was helping. Giles felt a little less certain that he was still tied to a chair in the mansion. He could picture the flat in London as though he was there and would he really be able to do that if he was trapped in an illusion? Could people trapped in thrall-imposed dreams still dream? He wouldn’t know. “Keep going.”

“Alright.” Ethan paused, seemed to think for a moment. Giles could see him frown in the half-light. “That time we came home one morning and found that rabbit hopping around the living room? I’m rather afraid that was me. I’d left some hellebore roots and juniper seeds lying in full sunlight on top of an open book that I never did see again. But I didn’t own up in case you were angry. Because it was your book.”

“The Treatise of the Under Realms. I always wondered what had happened to that.”

“Well if it’s any consolation it went on to live a long and happy life in an old chicken run in next door’s garden.” Ethan paused again. “What else? Oh – that time we were on the train home from Glastonbury and I told you I’d used a spell to get us first class tickets? Well actually I was tapped out and the spell fell flat, so I just used money. I didn’t tell you because you were too busy being hungover.”

Giles remembered that journey. He had indeed been horrendously hungover and Ethan’s gift of the first class tickets had had him relieved beyond measure that he wouldn’t have to scramble into a packed standard class carriage and be jostled about amid the crowd. Later, feeling better thanks to a bacon sandwich – also from Ethan – they’d spent the journey taking advantage of the free drinks and watching the passing countryside. “You actually bought those tickets?” he asked. “But it had to have been…”

“Every penny I had” Ethan confirmed. Of course, Ethan hadn’t exactly come by the money honestly. But still, it was a nice gesture. For him.

Assuming it was true. Assuming any of this was true. Giles murmured, “Tell me something else.”

“Well” Ethan thought for a while before saying, “Sorry Rupert, I’m not actually as secretive as you seem to think. I can’t think of anything else I know about our time together that you don’t. Except little things of course.”

“Such as?”

“Well. I, um. I loved sharing a bed with you. I’m not talking about the sex – though that was memorable too – but I mean just going to sleep next to you. I liked that. I always felt peaceful waking up next to you. Not sure if I ever told you.” Ethan reached out to brush Giles’ arm. “How about you get back in bed now, eh? I promise I won’t ask to join you, no matter how nostalgic I might be getting.”

Giles shook his head. “Keeping talking. I still need to know things you know and I don’t.”

“Why?”

“To make sure this is real.”

“I could do a reveal.”

“Good Lord, it always comes back to magic with you, doesn’t it? Please don’t; that could just be part of the illusion.”

“Rupert” Ethan spoke gently, “There is no illusion. I really am here and you really are safe.”

Giles flinched away from the comforting hand against his arm. “Just keep talking.”

“Right. Let’s see…I came to the Council headquarters once, after you left me. Six months after actually. To the day.”

“How far did you get?”

“Oh, all the way to the end of the lobby before I sensed the wards. So I looked around where I was and saw that photo of that bloody rugby team you’d rejoined and I took it out the frame before anyone came and turned it over and hung it back up again.”

That sounded like the small, spiteful sort of thing Ethan would do. Surely it was too small a detail for Drusilla to invent? And why would she? None of this was designed to force him to give up the secret of Acathla. And hadn’t he done that already? Giles could have sworn he remembered thinking his father would be ashamed. Damn this concussion.

“After that” said Ethan beside him, “I stuck to visiting you in places where I didn’t risk drawing the attention of the world’s most powerful mystical organisation.”

“I could still have got you in trouble with them.”

“But you didn’t.”

That was true. Giles hadn’t reported anything he knew of Ethan’s activities in Sunnydale to the Council. There’d be hell to pay once he handed over his journals but that wouldn’t be until after Buffy was dead, when nothing they did could conceivably matter anymore. Beside him, Ethan asked, “Feeling a little more real?”

“Possibly. If this is an illusion, I can’t see how it’s intended to get information out of me.”

“Someone was after information?”

And here it is, thought Giles: now Ethan was going to press him for anything he knew about Acathla, anything they must keep Angelus from knowing, and all this time he hadn’t been Ethan at all, Ethan wasn’t here, this was…Oh, God…

Ethan put a hand on Giles’ shoulder, arresting his attempt to shift away. “Really, Rupert, I do wish you’d get back into bed. We can carry on arguing about what’s real with you under the covers, surely?”

Giles sighed. An illusion might as well include a comforting fantasy about being in bed. He’d be dead soon anyway. And if they still had him under thrall it meant he hadn’t given away anything important after all, and that was good wasn’t it? Unless they’d just switched to tormenting him for fun. He stood shakily and Ethan pulled back the covers so he could lie down, then tucked them around him. Giles found himself saying, “I’m not a child for God’s sake.”

“I’m well aware of that.” Ethan studied him for a moment. “You might have noticed I’m not trying to get information. Even about who did this to you, though I’d like to know.”

“Dead anyway. Unless that was part of the illusion.”

“Does this really feel like an illusion? Think about it, Rupert.”

“If not an illusion” Giles reasoned stubbornly, “then maybe a hallucination.”

“Your head’s not that bashed up.”

“Oxygen deprivation can cause hallucinations. Possibly they’re killing me at last.” In a sick sort of way, it would be a relief. But had he told them about Acathla? Surely they wouldn’t be finished with him otherwise?

“I’m a little hurt that all my reminiscing failed to convince you.” Ethan sat carefully on the edge of the bed.

Actually, the memories had been convincing, but, “They could have fabricated that part too. From my existing memories.” Giles supposed he should have shared that suspicion sooner and ought to feel guilty for having Ethan share his memories for nothing, but then, if Ethan was an illusion, it didn’t matter, did it? Lord, but this was bewildering.

“Why would they bother?”

“They could be luring me into a false sense of security. Making me think I’m safe then letting me realise I’m not in order to break me. It’s what I’d do in their place.”

Ethan pulled a face. “Honestly, Ripper. I wouldn’t like to meet you as a vampire.”

“I dare say I’ve studied them long enough to make a fearsome one…God, I hate this! If they’re going to kill me, why don’t they just bloody get on with it?”

“They’re not going to kill you, Rupert. You’re safe now.”

“But I can’t be sure of that!” Giles hated the fear beneath the surface of the words, hated showing it to Ethan if he really was here, hated showing it to Drusilla even more if he wasn’t. “I can’t be sure of anything.”

Maybe this uncertainty was hell. Maybe Acathla had swallowed them all up already.

Ethan patted his shoulder. “Not right now you can’t” he replied. “But give it time.”

In a strange way, Ethan giving up his attempting to reassure him did more to convince Giles he was safe than all the rest of the conversation. He was too tired, too defeated to think about this anymore. Hell or no hell, Buffy missing or found, he just had to sleep. Giles closed his eyes. Opened them as Ethan stood up. He lay still and forced himself breathe deeply, ignoring the twinge in his chest, watching Ethan wander to his upstairs bookshelf. No magic books there; no harm in Ethan browsing. But Giles was surprised when Ethan selected a volume and returned to the bed, asking “Is this still your favourite?”

The book in his hand was _The Children of the New Forest_. “You know it is” muttered Giles, “I haven’t exactly been at liberty of late to revise my opinions on children’s literature.” As a boy, he’d loved that tale. Still kept a copy on the shelf even though he hadn’t opened it in years.

“Alright then” Ethan sat down beside him on the bed and leant back against the headboard. He flipped the book open and began, “ _The circumstances which I am about to relate to my juvenile readers took place in the year 1647_.”

“What are you doing?” Giles interrupted.

Ethan broke off and stared down at him. “I’m reading to you” he replied in a tone people usually reserve for the very stupid. “And this is the first book I’ve read that wasn’t about magic in Gods know how long, so you’d better shut up and listen.”

Giles wanted to argue but decided better of it. He closed his eyes and let Ethan continue to narrate the comfortingly familiar story.

He was asleep before the end of the first page.

*****

When Giles next opened his eyes, he was aware that he had slept well past his usual hour. Under the circumstances, he could forgive himself that, but he still felt the stirrings of annoyance when he examined his alarm clock to find that someone had turned it off.

Ethan was gone, the book by the bedside and the crumpled covers where he’d sat the only sign he’d been there at all.

And it had been him; Giles was sure of that now. It the safety of daylight it was obvious that the only illusion was last night’s nightmare suspicion that everything was. Giles allowed himself five minutes of stillness before rising.

It was only as he was halfway down the stairs that he registered the sounds coming from the kitchen. “Buffy?”

“Sorry to disappoint” returned a familiar drawl.

“Ethan. I thought you’d gone.”

“I refer you to my previous statement.”

“I’m not disappointed.” Giles paused in the kitchen doorway frowning at the mess.

“You should go back to bed.” Ethan told him.

“I can’t. I have things to do.”

“Watcher things?”

“Watcher things.” Giles confirmed. “Ethan, what are you doing?”

Ethan followed Giles’ gaze to the various stages of cooking taking place around the room, from half-chopped vegetables to pans on the hob, to the Tupperware boxes full of various soups and stews. “Well I can’t actually stay” he replied. “I’m on a flight to Cleveland this afternoon. So I thought I’d make sure you were stocked up on a few dishes since you’re not going to be cooking any time soon.”

Giles hadn’t even thought about how he was supposed to cook with broken fingers. “That’s…that’s actually very thoughtful of you.”

“Don’t sound too surprised.” Ethan shrugged. “How edible it all is will vary of course – it’s been a while since I cooked.”

Giles smiled, knowing he should reassure Ethan that his cooking would be lovely (which he knew from experience it might or might not be) but really just grateful not to have to seem too grateful. He asked, “Would you like tea?”

“Rupert, sit down. I’m the one who should be making you tea.”

Grudgingly, and telling himself that he was only trying not to be in the way of the cooking, Giles did as directed. Sitting on the sofa as Ethan busied himself in the kitchen, he began to make some sense of what he ought to be doing to find Buffy. Xander and Willow, now that they’d had time to think about it, might have some idea where she’d gone. Weren’t they always playing that tiresome Anywhere But Here game? Mostly that seemed to take them to highly improbable places, but if Buffy had ever expressed a liking for a particular city that might be a place to start. It was possible that she’d gone to her father or to the aunt she’d mentioned a few times, but Giles doubted that. He’d been a runaway himself once upon a time, and he knew the attraction of a completely fresh start.

But the demon world would have other plans for the slayer. There would be attempts on Buffy’s life regardless of whether or not she had decided to turn her back on her calling, and, actually, Giles wasn’t really convinced she had. Leaving the hellmouth, her watcher and the town where she was wanted for murder was one thing. Never fighting a vampire again quite another. That fight was in Buffy’s very soul. No, there would still be battles and some of those battles would be noticed, either by the press or by those in the know. That, if nothing else, would provide an indication as to where Buffy had fled. Giles supposed he should get on the phone. Call Xander and Willow to ask whether they’d thought of any likely places, or if Buffy had been in touch, and then call Joyce Summers and offer to visit and answer any questions she had. This would be the right thing to do in any case – Joyce probably had dozens of questions she was too dazed to ask yesterday – but it would also give him the chance to find out if Buffy had been in touch with her. Failing that, he’d have other phone calls to make. Not to the watchers, of course, but to the covens. That place in Devon, perhaps. And they could know of other groups. And then there were the magic shop owners, the dealers in ancient artefacts, the demon hunters, the few non-human-but-harmless – relatively harmless – creatures he still knew from his Ripper days. Someone, eventually, would hear something. A slayer didn’t just disappear.

So. He had a plan. The only drawback being he couldn’t make any of these important phone calls in Ethan’s hearing. Of all the people Giles wanted alerting to the situation, Ethan Rayne was about the last, least he make his own phone calls to his own contacts announcing that the hellmouth was unguarded. So Ethan would have to leave

So Giles would have to toss him out. For once, he didn’t like to, but duty came first, always. He’d made that decision the day he’d left Ethan.

Not that that meant he couldn’t do it tactfully. Giles cleared his throat. “I’m, err, I’m needed in the library this morning.”

“On a Saturday?” Ethan came in carrying the tea tray, which made him look laughably domestic.

“We’re behind on a few administrative chores.”

“Well tell them to stuff it. You’re injured.”

“I would actually like to go.”

Ethan sat down, fixing him with a shrewd gaze. “Your watcher stuff?”

“Yes. There are a few matters I need to research.”

“Poor Rupert. Is your slayer giving up her Saturday too?”

Buffy, thought Giles, had given up more than just her weekend and all to save the world from being sucked into hell – the world and all its inhabitants, including all the Ethan Raynes and Harmony Kendalls and Robert Snyders. Giles thought of Willy the snitch – he’d been saved – and Caleb the werewolf hunter. All the ungrateful people not in hell this morning. But where would thinking like that lead him? Nowhere good. Carefully neutral, he replied, “She may put in an appearance.” Please God.

Ethan, tea in hand just smiled in a non-comital sort of way, the way he smiled when he didn’t believe what he was told. “I hope the council are paying you overtime.” Then he frowned. “You will be alright, won’t you?”

Giles nodded. After all, he had to be. It was his job to be alright.

Ethan nodded but Giles suspected he didn’t trust the reassurance, quite. “Well” he said, “I’ll finish cooking within the hour, and then you can drop me off in town.”

“I’d rather get going now” griped Giles, but really, he knew it wouldn’t hurt to rest for just an hour. His whole body ached.

He wondered how Ethan had reached his apartment last night if he didn’t have a hire car. He didn’t like to think about Ethan walking alone after dark in Sunnydale, which was stupid on several levels – Ethan could handle himself when he needed to and officially speaking, it didn’t matter if he couldn’t. Officially speaking. “Very well.”

Ethan nodded and added, “And unless you’re planning on wearing pyjamas to work – and I wouldn’t complain by the way – you’ll need to pick out something to wear.”

Damn. Giles looked down at his sleepwear and up to see Ethan regarding him with a smile that was half sad, half mocking. “Honestly, Rupert, it’s a good thing I’m here.”

Unable to counter that, Giles stammered out a few aborted protestations and fell silent.

Ethan drank his tea up as wandered back into the kitchen. Giles could hear him humming some unidentifiable tune, just as he so often had when they were young. Any music, on Ethan’s tongue, blurred into something unrecognisable.

Giles jumped when Ethan returned suddenly. Ethan frowned but made no comment and handed over a small bottle of pills. “Your painkillers.”

Giles shook his head and Ethan rolled his eyes, set the bottle down. As he returned to the kitchen. Giles heard him mutter, “And you call me a masochist!”

Giles bit back a reply that pointed out just how long it had been since he’d had any reason to consider Ethan’s preferences. He stared at the bottle on the coffee table. Ethan had to have gone through his coat pockets to find these. Giles wondered what else he had found, but couldn’t think of anything incriminating. He’d thrown away the card the hospital had given him, featuring the phone number for a therapist. No point seeking therapy from someone who didn’t – and couldn’t – know the full story.

From the kitchen, a homely clatter and the sound of something boiling over, followed by distracted swearing. Then Ethan reappeared with aspirin. “What about these then?”

“I suppose they’d help.” Giles doubted that really, but he took two anyway, along with the biscuits Ethan pressed on him to accompany them.

Finally sitting down for a moment, Ethan told him, “I could make toast.”

“No thank you.”

“Are you sure? You should eat something.”

“You just gave me biscuits.”

“Biscuits don’t count, Rupert.” Ethan sighed. “Alright then, how about getting dressed?”

Giles nodded, resigning himself to being helped. “Fine. You might as well come up.”

Upstairs, he nodded to the wall and Ethan rolled his eyes and faced it. If last night was anything to go by, Giles supposed that was a bit pointless, but then, perhaps now he’d had a decent sleep he would find it easier.

This proved largely to be not the case. The pyjamas trousers shed without trouble, he found the top unwieldy. His chest was too sore to make just pulling the thing over his head palatable, and unbuttoning with still slightly shaking fingers proved equally impossible. “Perhaps you could help me with this part. I’m not sure I manage one handed.”

“Half handed, more like.” Ethan came away from the wall and swiftly unbuttoned the pyjama top and slipped it from Giles’ shoulders. Giles was suddenly acutely aware that he was completely naked. Instant heat coloured his face: he hadn’t been fully naked in front of another human being since…well, since not long after Ethan. There had been fleeting encounters in the years after he returned to the council, encounters whose numbers had dwindled to naught before long, unfulfilling and time-consuming as they’d been. It would have been better with Jenny but they hadn’t reached that stage. Hadn’t had the chance. For that or a world of other lost things. Brutally unfair, that he had had so much time to waste with Ethan, but Jenny had been lost so soon. Years of danger that he and Ethan flirted with, encouraged, caused, and Jenny was lost to the danger that came with trying to do the right thing. But then, perhaps to project unfairness on that was to assume that the world was a place where good is always rewarded and malice always met with consequences. The world was no such place.

Giles flinched as Ethan touched his shoulder. “Sit down” He was holding a fresh pair of pants. Giles nodded absently and sat mutely to allow Ethan to kneel and slip them over his ankles.

Probably Ethan had been naked in front of lots of people since their youth.

As Ethan pulled the pants over his knees, Giles said, “I can do the rest.”

If Ethan was disappointed, he didn’t show it. He simply backed off and went over to the wall again, lent against it with his eyes averted. Giles wasn’t sure whether he should take that as Ethan respecting boundaries or Ethan not fancying him anymore.

Gods, why should he care which it was? He stood and carefully hooked the pants over his manhood with his thumbs, pulled them over his hips. Ethan asked him, “I’ll find you an actual outfit, now, shall I?” At Giles’ nod, he started rummaging through wardrobe and drawers. “Rupert, do you own anything that isn’t tweed?”

“Obviously I do.” Perhaps he had let the council uniform dictate his wardrobe a little too much. But once he’d given up the punk attire, Giles hadn’t been entirely sure how to dress. Possibly Ethan had the same problem: these days he only ever seemed to wear suits with jewel-coloured shirts. Stylish, yes, but hardly imaginative. “Do you wear anything that isn’t a designer suit?”

“You can tell this is designer? There’s hope for you yet. And also, of course not, what do you take me for?” Ethan laid an armful of clothes out on the bed. “What’ll it be?”

“Oh, I don’t care. Anything.”

“Rupert, this is what you’ll be _wearing_. You should care.” Ethan frowned and considered the items. “Nothing with too many buttons, I suppose. Do you have any shirts with poppers?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well” Ethan selected one “This’ll do, I suppose. And…this.”

“I can’t wear a cardigan to work!” Giles protested.

“But the buttons are big” Ethan pointed out, “And it’s more comfortable than those tweed jackets. No more or less grandad-esque, either.”

Giles sighed and nodded a begrudging agreement. Best just to get dressed and get going. “Fine.” He let Ethan slip the shirt over his arms and button it up, and then do the same with the cardigan. Next came the trousers, and Giles noticed with some relief that Ethan had selected a pair that were reasonably straightforward to undo. Then socks and shoes, put on with Giles sitting on the bed again, and Ethan kneeling at his feet. Ethan asked, “Who’ll help you tonight?”

“I’ll manage.” Honestly, Giles wasn’t sure he would but then, he’d have to. If the worst came to the worst, he could ask the council to send someone; they had a recuperation support program for injured watchers. But of course, that someone would notice the absence of the slayer.

As they headed back downstairs, something beeped in the kitchen. “I’ll go see to that” Ethan muttered, and headed back there, leaving Giles in the living room. Giles heard a good deal of clatter, followed by the oven door opening and shutting.

Then came a knock at the door. Buffy? Giles hurried to answer it.

It was Xander. Giles tried not to feel disappointed.

“Hey there, Giles.”

“Hello Xander.” Giles moved to stand aside and let the boy in and then realised his houseguest was bound to raise eyebrows. “Why don’t you sit down?” He nodded to the outside seating. “I’ll bring some drinks out.”

“Nope, see Willow sent me over to see if you’re okay and I’m thinking she won’t be too impressed if you end up doing the host thing.”

“How is Willow?” Bless the girl for worrying.

“She’s okay. Kinda wiped.” Xander glanced appraisingly down at Giles’ hand and asked, “How about you?”

“I’m fine.” Tempted as he was to ask if the boy had heard from Buffy, Giles restrained himself: if Xander had, he’d have said, and he couldn’t have Ethan overhear.

“Are you sure?” Xander asked, “Because you look pretty unfine.”

“I’ll be alright. Nothing to, err, write home about.”

Xander nodded to his mangled fingers. “ _Can_ you write? Actually, how did you do your buttons up? Is this some really specific superpower you just never mentioned?”

“I, err. There’s a knack to it.”

“Right. So you don’t need help with anything? Because I could –” Xander froze, hearing noises from the kitchen and Giles saw his hope drag him to a certain conclusion even before the boy asked, “Buffy?”

“No, Xand –” Giles had to step aside as Xander brushed past, calling out, “Buffy?”

“Gods” Ethan’s voice sounded from the kitchen. “I seem to be easily confused with the slayer today.” He emerged and lounged in the doorway. “Ought I to worry?”

Xander froze at the sight of him and then stared at Giles. Ethan added, “Where is dear Buffy anyway?”

“She’s at home” Giles lied automatically. “I think, Xander, there’s been a misunderstanding – you’re supposed to be meeting her at her house today.”

“Right” said Xander, obviously too confused to play along further than that. Giles hastily added, “Ethan, you’ve met Xander.”

“Briefly” replied Ethan, running his gaze down the length of Xander’s body in a manner that made both Xander and Giles squirm. “Though I don’t recall you making quite the same impression.”

“Well” managed Xander, “That might be because last time we met you were kinda busy being beat up by my girlfriend.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Buffy?”

Xander coloured tellingly. “No. My oth – Another girl’s who’s kicked your ass.”

“Would this be when Philip went on the rampage?”

“Eyghon, not Philip” muttered Giles, for the sake of accuracy. He crossed his arms and then flinched as his fingers caught in the crook of his elbow. The flinch didn’t escape Ethan’s notice. “Rupert, sit down. I’ll make you both tea.” With that he headed back into the kitchen. Much as Giles wanted to direct Xander’s attention elsewhere – the young man was still staring at Ethan – he found all he could do was sink into the nearest chair.

That got Xander’s attention in any case. “Giles?” He hurried over and put a hand on Giles’ shoulder. Giles wished he wouldn’t but resisted shaking him off – it would hardly be polite. “I’m alright, Xander.”

Xander eyed him nervously and then released him. He sat down on the couch and leaned forward to whisper, “So, what the hell’s Ethan Rayne doing here?”

“He just happens to be in town” replied Giles. Grateful as he was that Xander had come to check on him, he rather wished he’d go away now. Trying to navigate any amount of Ethan and Xander interaction was yet more stress and would probably delay Ethan’s leaving.

And Giles could only search for Buffy once Ethan had left. Speaking barely above a whisper, he murmured, “I take you’ve had no word from…”

“No” Xander matched his near-silent pitch. “I hoped you had.” Xander glanced at the kitchen. “He just happens to be in town for what?”

“I…I believe he’s leaving today.”

“And, what, he just thought he’d come and hang out with you first?” Xander’s tone couldn’t be more incredulous if he’d found Spike in Giles’ home. Giles wondered how cold he must have seemed, the handful of times he’d even acknowledged Ethan’s existence in front of the children, that they apparently thought of Ethan Rayne as just another threat. Had they really no inkling that Ethan had once been so much more? Or was that just something they’d all implicitly agreed to never discuss? At Xander’s insistent gaze, Giles whispered, “He came to antagonise me. As is his wont. Now, Xander, have you thought any more about where our mutual friend might have gone?”

“No” Xander shook his head. “If I had any idea, I’d probably be on the Greyhound halfway there by now. Look, do you want me to kick him out?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Xander looked uncertainly over Giles’ hunched form. “’Kay. But. Did…did he help you dress?”

Giles glared at him. Xander drew back a little. “Okay. None of my business. But. Giles, are you sure you’re safe with him here?”

Giles softened his glare. “Yes, Xander. Ethan isn’t a monster, you know.”

“Not in the literal sense, sure. But remember I know about his dark magic first hand.”

He really didn’t, thought Giles. Xander’s taste of Ethan’s magic last Halloween was really a harmless prank compared to what he and Ethan used to get up to back in the day…

“Giles? You okay?” Xander’s hand was back on his shoulder and this time Giles did flinch. Xander removed it straight away. “Sorry.”

“It’s quite alright. Look, Xander, I’m grateful you’ve called round but I am a little tired.”

“Gotcha.” Xander leaned back against the sofa, tapping his fingers against the arm. “I’ll let you get some rest and call round later.”

“That would be very welcome.” Giles frowned when Xander made no move to leave, and instead stayed sat on the sofa, tapping its arm. He wondered how long it would be before he could idly tap his fingers like that again. Then, noticing the pattern, he frowned. Morse code?

Yes, Xander was using Morse code, his fingers asking: _Are you a prisoner here?_

Giles shook his head with a smile. “I really am quite alright, Xander. I’ll be at the library later, if you want to come and see for yourself.”

“Will do.” Xander stilled his fingers and stood up at last. He directed one last suspicious glance at the kitchen. “How long will Ethan stick around?”

“He’s leaving soon.” Ridiculously, Giles felt a little guilty at discussing Ethan as though he wasn’t in hearing distance. Really Xander had every reason to be suspicious. Suspicion wasn’t something to discourage, so Giles quashed his guilt and smiled at Xander. “I’ll see you later.”

“Right. See you later, Giles. Feel better.” With that and one last long glance towards the kitchen, Xander was gone. As soon as the door closed, Ethan emerged, beaming from the kitchen. “You’ll notice I behaved myself impeccably” he commented, clearly expecting praise.

“Only be absenting yourself.”

“Still, that took self-discipline, with your young friend so delightfully easy to embarrass.”

“Yes, I’m sure it took all the self-discipline you have.”

“You taught him Morse code? Is he going to grow up to be a dashing American watcher?”

“I highly doubt that.” With life on the hellmouth being what it was, Giles rarely allowed himself to wonder what the children would do when they grew up. Actually, it was probably Ethan who had taught Xander Morse code indirectly – in all likelihood it was a skill left over from his being transformed into a solider – but Giles didn’t tell Ethan that. If Ethan had any inkling that the after effects of his magic had been useful to Giles at any point, the gloating would be unbearable.

Ethan returned to the kitchen, leaving Giles’ thoughts to drift. Once or twice, they drifted to the mansion so Giles sat up straighter and studied the spines of the books on the opposite shelf. Listened to Ethan hum in the kitchen. It being another sunny Californian day, there was a slice of sunlight beaming down through the window and animating dust motes. Giles watched that for a while. Honestly, he could have gone back to sleep quite happily but it wasn’t an option.

“Alright” Ethan announced, coming back into the living room, “Dinner is served for this fortnight at least. I put what’s cooled already in the freezer.”

Giles stood up to leave but dithered, aware he should thank Ethan again for seeing to his culinary needs. “Ethan, I –”

“You want to get going to the library?” Ethan frowned. “Are you alright to drive?”

“I, I should be alright.” Giles glanced down at his hand. “It’s not far.”

“Well, as long as you’re sure. I’ll decline the lift if there’s any chance of you killing us both. And it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Giles cringed at a sudden memory of Ethan physically holding him back from stealing a car while roaring drunk. In the end, Giles had punched him for his troubles but Ethan had still showed up at the police station the following day to cast a glamour that allowed Giles to leave without delay or charges. Thank God no-one had been hurt, but it hadn’t been Ethan being the irresponsible one that time. That came later.

Really, it was a wonder Ethan didn’t hate him, Giles thought. The things he’d taken and left nothing but darkness in return.

Driving was difficult, mainly because of the gear stick. Managing to stall the car only twice was an achievement as far as Giles could see, but Ethan was still scornful. “Honestly, Rupert. Why’d you get a manual in America anyway? They do have an impressive range of automatics here, you know.”

“I could never stand them” Giles explained, “Too much like driving a bumper car.” It was dangerously easy to let mindless conversation with Ethan soothe away unwelcome memories. He was worried that as soon as he dropped Ethan off, his thoughts would veer back to Angelus.

Who was dead. That was the thing to focus on.

And Buffy who wasn’t. There was that too.

“I don’t know” Ethan was saying. “I’ve always preferred automatics. Less faff.”

“Well you would. You’ve never had much appreciation for the art of driving.”

“Oh and you have? Rupert, left to your own devices, you’d ride a horse everywhere.”

Out of nowhere Giles had a longing to be in the orchard back home, riding lovely old Jet. He really had to pull himself together. He tried squeezing his hand against the steering wheel, hoping pain would refocus him. It didn’t, only made him wince, and Ethan being Ethan was on to him straight away. “Rupert, you should have stayed in bed. Or at least at home watching crap daytime TV.”

“There’re things to see to Ethan.”

“Things?” That deliberately light tone, Ethan interested but not letting on.

“That are not your concern.”

“Hm. Maybe not. But _you’re_ my concern if you will insist on denying yourself a respectable period of convalesce.”

“I’ll be alright, Ethan.”

“I’ll hold you to that. I’m really not ready to lose you, you know.”

Stunned by that admission, Giles was torn between replying _You lost me long ago_ and _You’re not going to lose me, you prat_ , allowing Ethan time to add, “Really, Rupert, if I was the last of our little group left alive, do you have any idea how old that would make me feel?”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” They were in the town centre now, the best place for Ethan to get a taxi to the airport. “Dare I ask what you’ll be doing in Cleveland?”

“I’m not exactly sure yet” answered Ethan, studiously casual.

“Well, I’ll drop you off here.” Giles pulled over and stared at his hands on the wheel. “Ethan. Believe it or not, it actually was nice to see you this time.”

“Thank you, Rupert, I love you too.” Ethan winked and slid himself out the car. “Oh, and I do mean it by the way.”

“Mean what?”

“That I’m not ready to lose you. When things get tedious, it’s nice to think of you still being out there. And not too horribly mangled.”

Giles nodded once, because actually, he felt the same way about Ethan, now and then. Ethan who, when it really came down to it, knew him better than anyone else alive. Ethan whose life could have been his in mildly different circumstances. “Take care, Ethan. Well, unless you’re up to no good of course.”

“Carelessness it is, then. Be seeing you, Ripper.” And with that, Ethan shut the door and walked away. Giles smiled and pulled out into the Sunnydale traffic.

Be seeing you, indeed. For once, he almost hoped so.


End file.
